Banjo Man Read Free

mouth, and a sharp cleft in his chin, half hidden by the heavy shadow of beard that darkened his jaw. But it was his eyes that hypnotized her; they were a brown so dark and warm it needed another name. Cocoa, she mused, or chocolate, or coffee.
    Nervous laughter bubbled in her throat. “I must be hungry.” She gasped, struggling to get hold of herself. That had to be the explanation: hunger and exhaustion, and shock! What else could explain these crazy thoughts and feelings that were tumbling around inside her?
    The banjo player, studying her with those piercing dark eyes, accepted her words as answer to his question. “Well, sweet thing, I can take care of that! A Westin special, coming up!”
    He brushed his fingers lightly across her cheek, rose to his full, lanky height, and headed for the kitchen. At the doorway, he turned to Laurie. “You stay there, now. No funny business. I don’t want to come back and find you fainted dead away on the floor.”
    “Really, you don’t have to worry about me, or fuss over me, or anything,” she whispered, pushing herself up onto her elbows. “I’m okay. And just a cup of tea or a glass of milk would be fine. Don’t go to any bother, please.”
    “I don’t know,” he answered softly, “but I think I’d like bothering over you. You remind me of some little bird that’s been blown about on the wind and needs a place to rest.”
    “I am not!” she retorted, startling herself with her uncharacteristic burst of anger. Swinging her legs over the side of the bed, she glared at him, her gray eyes wide and flashing. “I’m not a little bird. No, not at all. I’m a grown woman, out on my own, and I can take care of myself. If I can drive from western Pennsylvania to Washington, D.C., without brakes, I can do anything. And I intend to. And I don’t want to be mothered or smothered or … or—”
    “Whoa!” His rich laughter filled the room. “Fantastic. You can bet I won’t make that mistake again. And believe me, mothering and smothering were not what I had in mind. I’ve just got a feeling that tonight might be the luckiest night of my life. I owe Ellen a kiss and Arlo an extra scratch behind the ears. Now, you just sit still, and I’m gonna fix you one of my special midnight snacks. Well”—he chuckled, glancing at the clock—“make that a three A.M. special, comin’ up for … Hey! you know, I don’t even know your name.”
    “I’m probably better off that way!” Laurie tossed back, a tiny smile tugging at the corner of her mouth totally against her will. “My name is Laurie O’Neill. Pleased to meet you. And you are …?”
    “…  even more pleased to meet you!” Flashing a rather wolfish grin, he moved swiftly from the doorway to her side. He captured her hand between the two of his.
    Messages sparked up the nerves of her arm, warning her startled brain about the deceptive strength of his hands and the surprisingly sensual rasp of the callused pads of his fingertips against her palm. His touch was cool, but her entire arm blazed with hidden warmth. She pulled her hand away as though she’d been burned. “No, I meant your name,” she insisted with ill-restrained exasperation. “Is Westin your first, last, or only?”
    “Ah … an old-fashioned girl who likes formal introductions. Well”—he offered her his hand and a wry grin—“I’m Rick Westin. Banjo player, balladeer, and collector of all kinds of American bits and pieces: songs, stories, people, and places. Satisfied?”
    Laurie tucked both hands warily behind her back. “Yes … mostly.”
    Hunkering down at the side of the bed, he rested his palms on his denim-clad thighs and lifted one dark brow in question. “All right. What else do you want to know?”
    “Well, it’s probably none of my business.…”
    “Come on. Shoot.”
    “How … how do you know Ellen?”
    “You mean how? Or how well?” he asked bluntly.
    Laurie went from pale to sheet-white. “I